TMI Thursday: Snap, crackle…pap?

Now, before I share my TMI Thursday post, let me set the mood for you with this funny little anecdote I received in a forwarded email a while back:

I was due for an appointment with the gynecologist late in the week.

Early one morning, I received a call from the doctor’s office to tell me that I had been rescheduled for that morning at 9:30 am. I had only just packed everyone off to work and school, and it was already around 8:45 am.

The trip to his office took about thirty-five minutes, so I didn’t have any time to spare. As most women do, I like to take a little extra effort over hygiene when making such visits, but this time I wasn’t going to be able to make the full effort. So I rushed upstairs, threw off my pajamas, wet the washcloth that was sitting next to the sink, and gave myself a quick wash in that area to make sure I was at least presentable.

I threw the washcloth in the clothes basket, grabbed some clothes, hopped in the car and raced to my appointment.

I was in the waiting room for only a few minutes when I was called in. Knowing the procedure, as I’m sure you do, I hopped up on the table, looked over at the other side of the room and pretended that I was in Paris or some other place a million miles away.

I was a little surprised when the doctor said, “My, we have made an extra effort this morning, haven’t we?” (I didn’t respond.)

After the appointment, I heaved a sigh of relief and went home. The rest of the day was normal: some shopping, cleaning, cooking, etc. After school when my six-year-old daughter was playing, she called out from the bathroom, “Mommy, where’s my washcloth?” I told her to get another one from the cupboard.

She replied, “No, I need the one that was here by the sink, it had all my glitter and sparkles saved inside it!”

BwahahaHA! Tell me that wasn’t the most hilarious thing you’ve read all week…

No? Well then. Maybe you can enjoy my TMI post on this fine Thursday morning. Laugh at my complete awkwardness. Scoff at me for being a total wuss. Sympathize with my ubercrybabylameness (made-up compound word by yours truly; patent pending). Or just feel my pain…(this last one is only possible if you’re a girl — sorry, boys).

Oh, and on that note…PLEASE don’t read this if you don’t want to know way too much information about me and my recent pap smear. Sorry for the spoiler, but I just wanted to throw that out there. I’m being real here, folks, and I totally understand if you don’t want to know it. Especially if you’re my dad or my brother. Or my future parents-in-law.

So, last Friday I had my first EVER appointment with a gynecologist. That’s right, dear readers, at the ripe old age of 23, I went in for my first pap smear. Well, that’s not entirely true…let’s rewind a few months.

This past September, I went in for my yearly physical (also a first) with my new physician, now that I finally have good health insurance. They suggested I have a pap then, just to get it all done in one visit, and nervous though I was, I knew they were right; I was a few years overdue and had put it off long enough. So I went in to get it over with.

Unfortunately, whatever “tools” my regular physician has for such a procedure are not quite as…well…gentle, as the ones they supposedly use in the OB/GYN offices. Of course, I had no idea what to expect anyway, so I’m laying there in the stirrups (too graphic? Sorry…feel free to stop reading now) and my doctor starts doing whatever they do down there, and suddenly I WAS IN THE WORST PAIN OF MY LIFE! No, seriously. I’m talking worse than two tattoos, worse than the world’s worst cramps or toothaches, worse than a killer migraine. I guess it may have just been the shock of having foreign STUFF in a place I didn’t really know was even accessible from where he got to it (seriously, you don’t have to keep reading), but it was basically my least favorite 30 seconds ever. (Thirty seconds, you wonder? Don’t pap smears take longer than that?) Um, yeah. I was in so much pain that he couldn’t finish the procedure. He – thank the LORD – perceived that I was about 2.7 seconds away from clocking him in the face with my heel, and he said, “You know? I’m really not worried about getting any bad results here, but if you do want to get a pap smear, I’ll refer you to a gynecologist.”

Great. I failed my first girly exam and instead of a get-out-of-jail-free card, I got referred to a professional. Needless to say, I started bawling uncontrollably. It was mainly embarrassment, I think, because there wasn’t really any residual pain once he had removed all the creepy objects from my nether region.

Anyway, that was the first attempted pap smear.

So once I realized that I really AM going to marry Joe, and pretty dang soon, I knew I had to make the dreaded appointment. I needed to do all that stuff you’re supposed to do before you get married — let some doctor dig around (sorry, couldn’t think of a better way to phrase it) for anything abnormal or worrisome, talk about birth control options, and all that jazz. I called to make the appointment for one of my Fridays off, and then I tried not to think about it until that morning. Didn’t want to go in all spooked and tense and stuff, since, you know…they always tell you to RELAX.

Heh. So I showed up on Friday morning, walked up to the reception area (it’s a large clinic with a bunch of different medical offices; not just OB/GYN), and told the nice lady at the counter that I had a 9:30 appointment with Dr. Crotchkiller. I mean Dr. Nelson. I thought that I was acting pretty cool, calm and collected. But judging from the nice lady’s reaction, I was probably pale, shaky and looking like I was about ready to bolt right out of there. She was like, “Oh, is this your first time seeing Dr. Crotchkiller?” *nervous nod* “Don’t worry, she’s my doctor, too. She’s suuuuper nice!” *blank stare* “And uh, okay, so that’s a $20 co-pay, and I’ll show you where to go… You’ll be fine!”

Oh yeah, suuuuuure I’ll be fine. Says the stupid NICE LADY who’s probably had at least a dozen of these stupid “procedures” and probably ALSO has “done it” (yep, I said “done it”) enough times that there’s plenty of ROOM for foreign objects to have a freaking party all up in there. I’ll be fine. Mmm-hmm. Juuuuuuust fine. Peachy keen. *I don’t wanna be a girl anymoooooore! I want my mommy!!*

Ahem. Right then. So I went into the office and checked in with the receptionist, then waited. And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

For what felt like ETERNITY…but was probably more like 12 minutes. I went to the bathroom to double-freshen up (like the lady in the story at the beginning…only without the glitter). Finally the doctor came out, greeted me sweetly and took me into the examination room. Mind you, this whole time, from the moment I walked into the building that morning, I was repeating this little mantra in my head, “Relax. It’s going to be fine. You can do this. You HAVE to be able to do this, or how in the heck are you going to deal with your WEDDING NIGHT?!” (Um, yeah, not the most soothing mantra, is it?)

Dr. Crotchkiller was graciously and exponentially nicer than her name might suggest (it’s not
her real name, anyway), and she really did help to calm my nerves. She assured me that there was pretty much nothing she hadn’t seen, and she walked me through each part of the procedure, letting me know what she was going to do before actually doing it — right down to whether she was putting a TOOL or a FINGER in a certain unmentionable place. Awkward, but helpful. She kept gently reminding me to relax, encouraging me that I was doing such a “wonderful job” and letting me know just how close it was to being finished. And then, suddenly, it WAS!

All in all, not the worst experience of my life. Definitely not nearly as bad as the first go-around last September, AND not as long as I expected it would take. But guess what?

I CRIED AGAIN!

I managed to make it through the whole ordeal this time, didn’t cry, didn’t kick anyone or really even think about it (I was still reciting that mantra…), and then Dr. Crotchkiller said, “Okay, go ahead and get dressed, then come into my office and we’ll talk about some other stuff. Take your time.” She walked out of the room, and I burst into tears (quietly, of course). Um…seriously?

Side note: In the nine months or so that I’ve known Joe, I’ve cried like 14 times more often than in the last TEN YEARS combined. Some might say this is a bad thing, but I’m eternally grateful that he’s been able to soften me up. Crying is freedom.

Back to the story (in case you haven’t had enough yet). I managed to stifle my tears, get dressed and splash enough water on my face to maybe somewhat slightly possibly hide my ridiculousness, and then walked around the corner to the doctor’s office. She told me all about HPV and how I should get vaccinated so I don’t get cervical cancer or genital warts (eww), and then started to shake my hand and say, “It was nice meeting you; see you in a year!” And I was like, “Wait! I have to tell you something!” (No, seriously, that’s pretty much exactly what I said, all exasperated and panicked.) I’m pretty sure she thought I was going to say something like, “I think I have a disease,” because she looked at me and pulled her hand away as if I had just said, “I think I have a disease.” (Man, I really didn’t prepare myself well for this, did I?)

So when I said, “I’m getting married!” I think she was incredibly relieved. And then came the obligatory girly squeal, because what girl doesn’t get excited when she hears someone is getting married, even if she did just have a front-row seat to that girl’s 10:00 Crotch Showing? So she said, “Aha! We need to talk birth control.” Then she proceeded to show me all the pretty options I had. And then I said, “I can’t swallow pills.”

And then I’m pretty sure she had to stifle her laughter because, seriously? This chick *points to self* is ridiculous. She can’t handle a tiny little tubey thing in her hoo-ha but is talking about getting MARRIED, and now she wants birth control but can’t swallow a freaking pill.

I didn’t feel lame AT ALL. Nope, not embarrassed. Not mortified. Not crawl-under-a-rock-and-DIE ashamed. The fact is, whether physical or psychological or just plain stupid, I really can’t swallow pills. And the other birth control options, like sticking something ELSE up there for x amount of hours, days, weeks, or YEARS? No thanks. At least not until well after…well, you know…things happen to make more room in that region. I jokingly said, “Is there, like, a chewable pill? Cuz I’d be all over that.” Totally didn’t expect her response to be, “Yep!”

PRAAAAISE THE LORD. Femcon is my hero. My knight in shining, minty-fresh, low-dose-so-you-won’t-get-as-nauseated armor. (Of course, we’ll see how much I like it after a few weeks of it, since I hear that pretty much any birth control is totally going to screw around with my body and my emotions…)

And the moral of the story is: suck it up, loser, because you only have to do it once a year. And next time (let’s face it), it probably won’t feel as gross or uncomfortable. Yay for getting married, and all that that implies for an innocent, waiting-till-marriage girl like me!

P.S. Nope, still not engaged. I’m being patient, honest.